


Riptide Lullaby

by Heronfem



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Confessions, Dissociation, Hopeful Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Piercings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sensory Deprivation, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27439276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: Sometimes, when he's feeling especially melancholy, Jaskier will dream of flying over the sea once more.Once, Jaskier was a Witcher of the Crane School. Now he's a bard, but the past doesn't die easily. Caught between past and future, freedom and confinement, Jaskier struggles to find and keep his footing as the world changes bit by bit.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 107





	Riptide Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this story tackles a wide range of upsetting things, including trauma that takes place in a pseudo religious setting. If you have religious trauma around baptisms, denial of emotions, and being cast out, please be aware that this might be a rough read.

Sometimes, when he's feeling especially melancholy, Jaskier will dream of flying over the sea once more.

He wakes up with tears on his face most times, the faintest whisper of salt spray. He takes care to be near people, or keep close to Geralt those days, so he doesn't think of ropes and the swoop of the stomach when falling from great heights, doesn't think of the great crash of waves and the feel of bowstring against his fingers or leather wrapped hilts in his hands. 

Jaskier aches for ocean birds.

He does not say a word.

oOo

Geralt is somewhere between savage and gentle, and it’s in this delicate half-space he treats Jaskier on the days when all he wants are seabirds and the rainbows embedded in abalone shells. Jaskier doesn’t tell him this, of course. He’s not that much of an idiot. Jaskier the bard is not a creature of the ocean, and Jaskier the bard might like the coast but also loves the inland places where Geralt prefers to travel. Geralt just sees him quiet in their forested wanders and works with it. But if he hums sea shanties, sometimes Geralt will chime in under his breath in his cracked and broken voice, familiar choruses tugging in beat with Jaskier’s heart.

“Skellige,” Geralt says one afternoon as they travel through Cidaris. It’s spring, and life is fluttering by them. Jaskier has been dreaming of the ocean for two weeks.

“What about it?” Jaskier asks absently, mind flitting between tunes as he tries to work out a tricky bit of the newest ballad. 

“We should go.” 

Jaskier stops dead in his tracks, and Geralt keeps riding for almost a minute before realizing that he’s stopped. He halts Roach and looks back at him, and Jaskier stares up at him in desperate, aching want. 

“I,” he says, voice cracking, “would like that very much.” 

Geralt gives him a long look, but simply nods. “Then we’ll go. Summer season. Warmer then.” 

“Good,” Jaskier says, and that’s the end of it.

oOo

When the child is brought to the island, payment from a minor noble for the safety of an entire fleet, the child is called Julian. He doesn’t know the name of his escort, and it doesn’t matter when the keep rises out of the mist like something in a tale, the trees of the ocean island not covering the sweep of the keep tower and the gentle curve of her walls. He learns later in life that he was acquired by a Kingfisher, an auspicious sign for a would be Witcher. At the entry stairs the pair are met by Witchers in seafoam green robes, who take him from the boat and bring him within the renewing halls of Kaer Cuan to be remade.

The island of Kaer Cuan is lush, a long oval with a large keep, tall walls, large training grounds, and many beautiful trees with many beautiful birds within them. It is a peaceful place, even in the face of the wild training the inhabitants endure. There are seemingly endless gardens, large libraries, quiet halls. The windows are stained glass and spill brilliant color onto the floors. Everything in Kaer Cuan is still, and calm, and tranquil. 

He’s given new clothes, a new identity, and becomes Plover-12, like all the other Plovers. He barely remembers Julian, but Plover-12 lives among his fellows on the monastery island. His world is narrowed to training, to swimming, to holding his breath and learning how to fall, endless hours climbing ropes and working swords and bows. Those years are hazy in his mind- they are meant to be eased once he is remade. 

His trainers wear the uniform of their order, their medallions bright against the seafoam green habits that hide their leggings and fitted clothing. Plover-12 wears orange, along with the others, because they want their bodies to be visible in the water. All Witchers of the Crane School are titled, not named, and may change titles many times in their lives when other Cranes pass on. Crane himself, the head of the order, often sends missives announcing the changes in positioning. The trainers are called Pelican, and function as a unit as much as possible. Plover-12 is a good student. He trains hard with the bow and the swords, memorizes alchemy quickly, remembers monsters. He is light but sturdy, long legged and strong in the hand, and he takes to training on the ropes with ease. He is not calm, not like the Pelican’s wish them to be, he is noisy, but they remind him that he will be remade and the calm will come. 

Plover-12 learns to sail with the others, trains under the Pelicans. He remembers the other Plovers, later in life, liking to go sailing even when there were monsters about, because the Pelicans are calm and carry large spears to hook delicious fish. Most of what they eat is fish. He remembers one of the Plovers, Plover-8, dying off the side of the bow of one boat and being eaten whole. 

Once it bothered him. But he has no memory of the upset. 

His first Trials come, and he takes the Grasses, and he is _reborn_. It takes him a full week to pass through the Trial of the Grasses, and he comes too with a start and opens too bright eyes and blinks once-twice with his new secondary eyelids and feels his too sharp double incisors where once there was just canines and a molar, and the air is _more_ and the scent of the world is _more_ and the brilliant, wonderful feeling of a soothed, calm mind settles on him and his scream modulates from high alarm to a soft, ringing note of song.

“Welcome,” his attendant says, and smiles. It’s one of the first smiles he’s ever seen on this Pelican. “Congratulations on your rebirth, and such a _strong_ rebirth. Your name is being selected. Until then you are nameless.” 

No-Longer-Plover-12 nods his acceptance. 

No-Longer-Plover-12 learns that his feet are longer and thinner now, the toes much more prehensile and slightly webbed, his nails and fingers strong enough to shatter clam shells. His eyes have new secondary eyelids to cover them with a film to protect them in water, and they’ve turned gold with cat-slit pupils that he'll learn to adjust back to round. Those he knows he liked the best of the changes, but his light but iron strong bones are also good.

He is called to the training yards and given tasks. He doesn’t remember them. They were unimportant tests of skill, to examine what his new body will be like. The Cormorants who have final say before the Crane himself examine him and consider his skills, and consult the books to review his options for a title. There is some discussion. They agree to read the auger for further notice. No-Longer-Plover-12 is patient. No-Longer-Plover-12 is one of the two remaining of his class of 14. He will be good for the Pelicans who must care for him.

He is called a month after his rebirth to the heart of Kaer Cuan, a garden where a pool of gentle blue water with gold light at its depth waits. He is bathed, cleansed of the world, and with the Pelicans, Cormorants, and Crane watching, steps into the pool. He floats as two long poles are lashed to his arms and he’s pushed under. 

It is pure bliss to be bathed in the sacred waters that make them free of their emotions. His mind has been smoothed of old hurt by the Grasses, but in the water all is stripped from him, every fear and pain and worry and joy and happiness and delight, he is cleansed entirely. He remembers all, and knows what the emotions he felt then were, but he can no longer access them. He is free of shame. He is free of heartache. He is free of love. He is free. 

He tugs on the poles when he can no longer hold his breath, and pulled from the water by his arms. 

He is tranquil. 

All is well. 

He becomes Osprey then, and the surprise that ripples through the others as Crane annoints him with oils and a crown of kelp is audible. Osprey is an auspicious rank for an untested Witcher who has yet to claim a medallion, but Crane does not say anything further to them. 

“You,” he says gently, cupping Osprey’s cheek gently, “will be a wonderful Osprey. I have read the auger.” 

Osprey is allowed to take a last name, to ease the humans minds about his being, and takes the traditional name of _of Cuan_ , after his Kaer. The next few years are more of the same. He grows very good with the rope movements, and trains hard, and expands his lung capacity more and more until he can remain under the water for 20 minutes or more. He spends his time in the ocean, growing to appreciate the cold water, or in classes. Once every six months he is taken to the sacred water and cleansed, to keep him free of the weight of his emotions and train him better in tranquility. He receives his medallion without a scratch on him. The process is barely worth thinking about.

He is gifted his first personal swords, falchions to match his status as Osprey, and bows his honors to Crane and the Cormorants before he is set to the Path. He will return in a year for new cleansing.

And this pattern is how Osprey stays, until things go very wrong.

oOo

Jaskier has not seen the ocean in far too long when they arrive at the coast the first time.

Something in him snaps when he hears the first cry of a gull, the wheeling wail running up against the walls of his mind to lean in and pull out Gull’s soft breathing, warm mouth, gentle hands. He bolts towards the noise, missing Geralt’s shout, and runs and runs and runs to the edge of the forest. 

The water looks bitter cold. 

He strips down anyway. 

He can hear Geralt yelling after him, but he runs into the surf and falls forward, weeping with relief as the salt water pounds his skin and he dives beneath, swimming out into the deeper water. He surfaces with a gasp, head flipping back as he feels like he can breathe for the first time in 30 years. 

He’s home, home, home. 

He dives into the surf, going deeper with every kick and he feels like he can finally just be, just thrive as he is. There are fish here, and some drowners far in the distance that sense him and swim away to avoid his wrath, and seaweed and urchins and sand and salt and _praises unto all the gods he’s home_. He dives into the water and scoops up a few clams, his third eyelid covering his more sensitive mutated eyes and letting him see easily through the gloom. He surfaces again, far from shore, and can see Geralt and Roach both pacing along like they’re trying to figure out what to do. He grins, and swims towards them. 

“Sorry!” he calls merrily when they’re in range. Geralt looks like he wants to strangle him. “I picked up dinner!” 

“ _What the fuck are you doing?_ ” Geralt roars, though it’s bordering on a screech. “There are drowners out there!” 

“It’s fine!” Jaskier yells back, and swims in closer to rise from the surf. The waves crash around his hips, his bare form kissed with salt water and sand grit, and he walks to the shore feeling as if he’s been reborn anew. There’s a tangle of seaweed on his shoulders, probably some in his hair as well. He’s been crowned, re-anointed in his being, and something in him resonates and calls up _tranquil, tranquil, tranquil_. 

It makes him hazy, all the memories of Osprey rising, the peace of being free from emotional strain. By the time he’s all the way out of the water he is so calm he feels as if he’s floating on air. He steps lightly from the water and sighs, handing a staring Geralt the clams. 

“Clams,” he says, in the cadence of home. “They will be delicious.” 

Geralt looks at the pile in his hands, and back at Jaskier. “The fuck?” 

“Clams,” he insists, and gently pushes at his hands before wandering away to find a rock to sleep on in the sun. It’s been too long since he managed a nap like this, on sun warmed rocks with the smell of the world around him soothing. He finds a nice rock and settles on it like a seal, the sun beating down on this skin and warming him to boneless calm. 

When he wakes, Geralt has shelled the clams, and he coos at Geralt when he sees the stew he's making. 

His name is floating somewhere beyond him right now. Here where the sea meets the land, he's a mix of things. He is Julian and Plover and Osprey and Jaskier, child of the sea and the sky, born of the earth and rooted in growing things. He sits next to Geralt and rests his head on his shoulder, sighing in contentment. Geralt gives him a strange look, but reaches up to gently stroke his salt puffed hair. 

"You alright?" Geralt asks after a while. 

"Very good," he says, turning his head to nose at the line of Geralt's neck. He remembers vaguely that the Wolves scent each other, though Cranes don't have the ability. Geralt shivers, but doesn't fight him as the smallest hint of some new scent hits Jaskier's nose. Geralt's, probably, teased from the scent glands. Jaskier settles, now fully Jaskier again, and calmly watches the fire until it's time to be fed. 

He eats quietly, mind humming with total calm, and only pushes back when Geralt tries to convince him to go camp in the woods.

“No,” he insists, the idea of leaving the water too far away unbearable. “Here. Close.” 

Geralt looks torn, looking between him, the ocean, and the forest, and then groans. “Fine. We’ll camp on the upper banks.” 

“Acceptable,” Jaskier says, and is less than useless as Geralt sets up camp. He breaks down and runs back into the water to bathe again, relishing the cool touch of the waves to his skin, and when he comes back to the fire Geralt is watching him with an odd expression. Jaskier dries off and pulls on his clothes again, wrinkling his nose at the feeling. 

It's only once he's bedded down in their bedroll that Geralt says, "It makes you happy, being here."

Jaskier hums. "Yes."

"We can stay a while, before we cross." 

Jaskier sighs in delight. "Thank you." 

In the morning he rises with the sun, and coaxes Geralt into the ocean with him to swim and dive to pull up oysters, and he feels something like being whole again when he dives beneath the waves and sees Geralt's broad, wolf-strong legs passing above him dappled in sunlight beaming through the waves.

oOo

Osprey’s first scar, his only big scar, is from his fifth hunt in his first year. He knows logically that he almost died, and this should have been traumatic, but the fear has been washed away like so much sand over the years. The simple story of it is this- he goes to hunt a greater Grand Mistress Siren, a head of a siren clan who’s been preying on townsfolk. He sings against the siren, and she takes offense. Her teeth find his neck, and he cuts her head off as they scrape in one ugly mess across his throat.

Over the bulge of his throat is a massive mark like shark teeth, with welted scars from where the mouth dragged. 

He takes to wearing a gorget after that, in defense, and thinks the look is so pleasant to the eye he keeps it up. The gorget is simple, just a leather thing that sits neatly across his neck and along his collarbones, dipping under his simple shirt, and that suits him nicely. Cranes may not feel, but they do have an eye for artistic beauty. 

His first winter back in Kaer Cuan, Osprey receives his first piercings from Crane to mark his accomplishments. He has the Keracki circuit so he has tackled mostly the same kinds of monsters over and over, not seeing anything exotic. His first piercing is his septum, the only piece that will be steel, and it's inset with dark blue sapphires. This is for drowners, Witcher's bread and butter. His ears are next, each main lobe pierced with plain silver studs for wraiths and noonwraiths. The industrial on his right ear is for his first harpy nest, the second lobe piercing for his first harpy in general. The last is the bar threaded through the bridge of his nose, capped with two cones. His Grand Mistress siren kill, a high honor for someone so young. 

Crane does all of this in the sacred room set aside for it, kneeling on a mat as he works his hollow needles through Osprey’s skin and anoints each silver piercing with water from the Pool. It is the duty of the Crane to pierce all and mark them as devotees of their craft. 

The Crane, who will never again leave Kaer Cuan, has one last piercing that only Crane himself is allowed- a tongue piercing, to mark that his tongue is not suited for monster slaying, and only to care for his people. The ball on it is large and meant to make singing hard, ruin the Crane’s voice for anything but speaking- no siren hunts for him, only service to the Cranes. 

The 37th Crane of Kaer Cuan annoints him with more water from the Pool and kisses his forehead when he is finished, standing. He has started to age, and rapidly. Osprey steadies him, and bows to kiss his knuckles before leaving to meditate. 

By the time it has been Osprey’s 4th year on the path, the 38th Crane has been selected, annointed, and pierced, bound to Kaer Cuan for the rest of his days.

oOo

Skellige is a mess, as always, but there’s something about stepping off the ship onto a Skelligan dock and immediately being told exactly how someone wants to see him fucked that makes Jaskier feel like he’s at home.

“I love it here,” he says happily, ducking with ease of long practice as a boom arm comes swinging past. Geralt gives him a thoroughly askance look. 

“You do?” 

“I do.” He cheerfully tells a man exactly what he intends to do to his sister, complete with gestures, and gets a hearty laugh in return. “Skelligans know exactly who they are and what they want and I think that’s very sexy of them. And, you know, they’re great burly handsome folk most of the time and I’m unfortunately very fond of getting tumbled by redheads. There are just so many good looking redheads here.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes so hard Jaskier half expects them to fall out, but he’s got a little bit of a smile on so Jaskier doesn’t feel too worried about it. “You come here much?” 

“No, rarely,” Jaskier sighs. “Hard to run away from here, and I like having my exit options open. Islands make that a bit of a difficulty.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt offers in general sage agreement, and in about another four steps they arrive at a notice board. Jaskier and Geralt read together, collectively do the math, exchange looks, and tear down most of them. Geralt splits to find the local headman, and Jaskier books it to the nearest tavern. 

They leave town a good deal richer, and when they reach the next one, a much larger port city, Jaskier takes the time to get kitted out in Skelligan fashion. The boots are a new cut with slight heels, with laces that wrap around to keep them tight, and he’s thrilled to find that comfortable hose are back in style here so long as they’re paired with the ultra long tunic that splits all the way up to the thighs and has embroidery or trim around collar, cuffs, and splits. Geralt, being himself, only buys a very nice cloak in rich indigo. Jaskier, fond of blue, gets indigo to match, and a lovely tablet woven belt to drape down his front.

This is fine, right up until he catches sight of himself in the water and stops dead, staring down. 

Geralt makes it a good ways before he notices him transfixed, and comes back, Roach huffing as he clicks her to a halt. 

“Jaskier?” 

Except he’s not Jaskier, right now, he’s… something else, probably. Somewhere between Osprey and Jaskier and Julian Alfred Pancratz, because the face is all wrong for this shade of blue and the cut is wrong and oh. 

He looks up from the water, awash with peace and calm. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, and he turns to him. Geralt seems concerned, but he just blinks at him. 

“We should keep going,” he says, serene, and walks away. 

It takes him until evening before he breaks out of it and snaps into Jaskier again, sitting by the fire and eating a hare. Geralt’s been dead silent all day, and Jaskier’s been too full of peace and tranquility to care. 

“This is good,” he says, and Geralt reaches over with a silver coin to press it on him. Jaskier blinks. “Uh.” 

Geralt pulls it away, frowning. “You were… odd. All day. What happened?” 

Jaskier considers and discards many options, and goes with a simple, “Old memories. It was the indigo, I haven’t worn this precise color for a long time and it brought something up.” 

Geralt frowns, but nods. “Can… Can I help?” 

Jaskier tips his head back, thinking of the sensory deprivation tanks, of the Pool, of Gull’s face as he comes free of the water the picture of tranquility, the snap in his chest when he feels the Pool’s hold break and his aging begin, his mortality, the way the sunlight came down through the stained glass in the sacred chamber of piercing where Crane threaded needles through his skin and adorned him with his rankings and anointed him victory. He thinks of Gull’s hands, so gentle on the curve of his waist, the unbuckling of the collar from around his throat, the way his hands rucked up a robe not unlike this one so many years ago. 

“No,” he says, looking up at the cold light of the stars. “But in time, I’d like you to try.” 

He tips his head back down to meet Geralt’s gaze, and Jaskier is mollified to find it calm and resolute. 

“Very well,” Geralt says, and that night they nest down together like real people might, and Jaskier reaches up to touch the tough leather band he always wears, because some old habits can’t be broken so easily. 

Geralt’s seen the scars. They’ve spent too much time together to avoid it. He’s seen the tooth marks, knows it was a siren. He knows what Jaskier’s allowed him to figure out, that he’s from Kerack and a nobleman’s son and lived near-ish the ocean. It’s not impossible for Julian Alfred Pancratz to have been savaged. 

It isn’t the truth, of course. It had been Osprey, a hunter, who had been taken by surprise. 

Julian Alfred Pancratz and Jaskier would have been swallowed whole. 

He finds it hard to sleep that night, and when he wakes in the morning Geralt’s hand has found the tender dip at the small of his back and his long robes have been rucked up in the night. Turn about is fair play, though, because his arms are tight around Geralt’s waist and his fingers are maybe lower than they ought to be. 

They don’t talk about it. 

In the next town, Jaskier buys another tunic in the robe style, this one in vibrant red, and black hose to wear underneath.

oOo

The 21st Gull is killed in a battle against a serpent of unknown species, and his cutlasses returned reverently to the first Crane Witcher seen. That Crane is Osprey, who takes them grimly and finds passage to the docks that will take him to Kaer Cuan.

He has been on the path for a year longer than he meant to, and when he arrives at Kaer Cuan and relieved of the 21st Gull's blades he's immediately sent to bathe in the ocean to cleanse himself of the Path. He does so without question, his traveling clothes taken from him to be burned and his swords to be cleansed. When he rises from the water he is calm, but grows calmer still when they lead him to his cell and the sensory deprivation tank is opened to drop him inside. 

He will spend most of 12 hours here, before being taken to the pool. It is a calm time, and when he’s released his head is mostly empty. There are emotions lingering on the edge of his calm, but the upset over a brother’s death is mostly fine. 

It won’t matter for long, anyway.

The Pool is warm salt water, and he's held under for a long time as he closes his eyes and lets the magic in. It's a strange sensation at first but one grows accustomed to it- the feeling of old hurts being stripped away, happy memories losing their color along with sad or painful ones. Osprey sinks into tranquility and when he rises from the pool he is as serene as the moon on the water. 

Crane stands waiting for him, and hands him a Master's robe of deep indigo blue. Osprey dresses, mind blissfully at peace. Crane waits for him, and then leads him to the chambers of the Crane himself, and together they sit at a table in blissful calm and eat. Osprey eats until his stomach is settled. 

“I have read the auger,” Crane says. “A new Gull has been selected of the ranks, previously Sandpiper.” 

Osprey nods his understanding. 

“You will be paired with him.” 

Osprey considers this. “I have previously traveled only alone,” he says, without much concern. "I will have to learn new skills to compensate, if we are to partner. I am not objecting, simply stating. Is it not better for another of a pair missing a rudder worker or rope swinger not fill the gap in the new Gull’s learning?”

Crane folds his hands in front of him, looking up at the stars. It’s a clear night, a nice night, and they have been eating on the balcony.

“No,” he says at last, “it is meet that this is to be, Osprey of Cuan. This Gull will be beside you for a year, and we will see what the auger says after this.” 

“Yes, Crane,” Osprey says, obedient and tranquil. He is taken to the room of piercing the next morning and has his face updated to reflect his hard work. There are two industrials now, 3 rings in each helix, two lobe piercings in each ear, both tragus’, his bridge, septum, nostrils, two bars in his left eyebrow and one in his right, one curved ring on the right side of his lower lip and two on his left, the labret that comes through his lip and leaves a ball to sit flush against his upper lip, the embedded piercing at curve of his cheekbone under his left eye, and his nasallang. 

Osprey is a competent Witcher. He is well decorated.

Osprey is cared for and tended to for a week, as is traditional and optimal, and then meets the new Gull. He is nothing Osprey has not seen before. Willowy, tall, wide golden eyes and short cut black hair, very pale, he is every inch a consummate Crane. He has the usual piercings, and has a siren’s bridge piercing to match Osprey’s.

The 22nd Gull has been on the Path 5 years now. Osprey has been on the Path for 30. 

Together, Osprey and Gull leave Kaer Cuan, and begin anew.

When they return, they will not be the same.

oOo

The villages that Jaskier once traveled through as Osprey don’t recognize him, and there is a certain horrible freedom in checking in on families he once saved and extracting stories of the _sciathan_ who passed by and helped them while Geralt is out doing contracts. He sits there without his piercings, his hair cut short and only a simple band of leather to cover his scars, dressed in bright Skelligan fashion, and they talk.

“Your Witcher,” one old woman he saved when she was just a little scrap of a lass says, “he’s no _sciathan_ , I’ll grant you, but he is quite the looker. I thought for years they all went about with metal in their faces. Is it just a _sciathan_ trait, then?” 

“I think so,” Jaskier says, taking another bite of his lunch. “Different schools, apparently. Sciathan, that’s a different kind? Teach me, auntie, I don’t know the word.” 

He says it poorly, though it’s familiar to his tongue. 

“ _Sciathan_ ,” she corrects, smiling indulgently at this mainlander. She’s perhaps, oh, 50 ish now. He saved her very early on in his career, when she was barely out of toddling. “Of the kind with the piercings, the ones who fly from the tops of ships. It means “wing”. A flying thing.” 

His heart aches. “ _Sciathan_ ,” he breathes, and she smiles wistfully. 

“Not so common these days, but yes, that’s how it’s said. I was saved by one, once! I was just a little mite then, very small, taken by harpies and tucked into a cave to gobble up later. One came for me, just in time, and he had great long swords that flashed in the darkness and metal all over his face,” she says enthusiastically, her face wrinkling up as she thinks back on it. “He took me from that stinking nest and whoop, down we fell from the cliffs, and he took me home to my mother and father and took a place to sleep in exchange for coin payment. They were always grateful for that.” 

He remembers that. He had started to have emotions then, nearly a year and a half away from Kaer Cuan. He knew, logically, he was supposed to take coin, but he had liked the warmth of this little grasping bundle and his heart had done strange things when he saw the parents weeping, and so he had taken his first step away from his training and accepted a room instead. 

This first step sits before him, smiling, and he smiles back, feeling Osprey deep down in his soul trying to mimic the action. 

“You know, I never did catch your name,” he says. 

“Mar,” she says. 

_Sea_. 

Geralt takes this moment to come back in, getting a raucous cheer from the Skelligans who hired him to take care of their harpies, and once he’s paid he finds his way to Jaskier’s table and sits down hard. 

“Geralt, this is Mar. Mar, meet Geralt of Rivia, who is usually a little less covered in blood,” Jaskier says, smiling, and Mar laughs. She’s a big, solid woman, with bright red hair in thick curls, and Jaskier wishes he had the emotions to pull up of that moment when she was so small in his arms, when her parents were gentle, when he made his first choice. Just another thing stolen, he supposes. “Geralt, now, tell us all about the harpies. Mar here was once stolen by one when she was little!” 

Skelligan summers are mild but comfortable, and Jaskier grows used to his split skirts and his knee high boots, the bright colors and patterns. He tries to wear the indigo tunic once in a while, when he thinks they won’t be near mirrors, and they make plenty of money as they go. Few Witchers have been through the Isles recently, which is a little odd. 

Odder still is the back and forth of people, Jaskier thinks. Towns he once stayed at have vanished into the earth or been eaten by larger ones. A few tattered huts have become towns in their own rights. He sees graveyards he helped establish, hanging trees he once supped under, hears songs he heard a lifetime ago, and he dances old dances with old women and old men when they find taverns. The music takes him then, as it always has. He falls into Skellige’s wailing pipes and banging drums, lets his skirts swirl as pretty girls and handsome men spin him to the crying harps and horns.

Geralt watches, those nights, eyes level and resolute when the fervor of the pipes reach a fever pitch in Jaskier and all he wants is to take and be taken, be stripped down until the music of the Pool can be dragged out of him and expunged- for the Pool is in him, branded along his insides, and he will never be free of it. But he can be wild. 

It’s on a night like this when the wildness leeches into his bones that Geralt finally stands and joins the dancers in the tiny place they’ve found themselves, this tavern in the middle of nowhere. Jaskier’s done his duty, teaching their minstrels the new pieces from the mainland, and when he was done they struck up reel after reel, jigs and dances galore, and the wildness comes bubbling up. 

Geralt is a surprisingly good dancer, and smoothly cuts in between Jaskier and a full figured lady with a husband who’s watching them both with hungry eyes. Jaskier goes with him, the core-sunk wanting enough to let Geralt spin him again and again, heavy booted feet never stepping wrong through the dance until they’re spun out, and up the stairs, and Jaskier crashes against him like so many waves against the rocky shoreline of Kerack. 

“Now?” he whispers, thrumming with the drums and the horns. 

“Now,” Geralt agrees, mouth trailing up his ear. “If you’re ready, I am.” 

“Why?” Jaskier asks, nosing against him as Geralt pushes him against a wall. “Why?” 

Geralt kisses him then, low and heated. “No masks with them,” he says simply. “You love it when they make you savage in the safety. All I see is hunger, no pretense.” 

Jaskier takes a shuddering breath, scenting the air, the lust and the old sweat and leather and blankets and wood and nails and gods, yes. Yes, fine, Geralt is right, he is full of desperate hunger and a memory of when he once wasn’t caged, when he had wings, when he was _sciathan_ in more than just his blood but in his words and actions, when he had a medallion to sing silver around his neck, he is all wildness. 

No tranquility here. 

Jaskier will never be tranquil again. 

“Let me be hungry,” Jaskier breathes, and his hands find Geralt’s hair to fist in the silver. “Feed me and you’ll never be rid of me again.” 

Geralt kisses him like he’s begging to be devoured.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments bring me great and abiding joy! Life is stressful, comments are free! Please feed your local starving author, they're doing their best. You can find me as Heronfem or kaer-cuan on tumblr, HeronVinn on twitter. Art and podfics welcome!


End file.
